THERE never breathed a man who, when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate

Toils long and hard. The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright sword flashing in the field,
And blasts of trumpets. He, who hath been doom'd
To bow his forehead in the courts of Kings,
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived

From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Boötes. Forty years
Over the well-steer'd galleys did I rule :
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft;
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Avail'd not to my vessel's overthrow.

What noble pomp, and frequent, have not I

On regal decks beheld!

Yet in the end

I learn that one poor moment can suffice

To equalise the lofty and the low.

We sail the sea of life—a calm one finds,
And one a tempest-and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.

EPITAPH, BY CHIABRERA, ON GIAMBATTISTA FEO.
TRANSLATED BY WORDSWORTH.

IF solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness

Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share;
Even bliss-'twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed.
Who would be doomed to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to have the billows more;
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;—
Better to sink beneath the shock,
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

BYRON.

RESENTMENT is, in every stage of the passion, painful, but it is not disagreeable, unless in excess. Pity is always painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the contrary, is always pleasant, yet always disagreeable.

HOME.

OH Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!
See where she comes! once my heart's dearest blessing,
Now my changed eyes are blasted with her beauty,
Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her.

ROWE.

How many bitter thoughts does the innocent man avoid! Serenity and cheerfulness are his portion. Hope is continually pouring its balm into his soul. His heart is at rest, whilst others are goaded and tortured by the stings of a wounded conscience, the remonstrances and risings up of principles which they cannot forget; perpetually teased by returning temptations, perpetually lamenting defeated resolutions.

PALEY.

SHORT is Ambition's gay, deceitful dream,

Though wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow,
Calm thought dispels the visionary scheme,
And Time's cold breath dissolves the withering bough.

Slow as some miner saps th' aspiring tower,
When working secret with destructive aim;
Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour,
But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name.

OGILVIE.

P

IN moments to delight devoted,

"My life" is still the name we give;

Blest word! on which my heart had doted,
Had man a longer term to live.

But oh! so swift the seasons roll

That word must be repeated never;
For" Life," in future say, 66 My soul,"
Which like my love exists for ever.

HOPE is itself a species of happiness, and perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords; but, like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain, and expectations improperly indulged must end in disappointment. If it be asked, what is the improper expectation that is dangerous to indulge, experience will quickly answer, that it is such expectation as is dictated not by reason but by desire; expectation raised not by the common occurrences of life, but by the wants of the expectant; an expectation that requires the common course of things to be changed, and the general rules of action to be broken.

JOHNSON.

OFT, though Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps
At Wisdom's gate; and to Simplicity

Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no ill
Where no ill seems.

MILTON.

A CHARACTER of a highly virtuous and lofty stamp is degraded, rather than exalted, by an attempt to reward virtue with temporal prosperity. Such is not the recompense which Providence has deemed worthy of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach young persons, that rectitude of conduct, and of principle, is either naturally allied with, or adequately rewarded by the gratification of our passions, or the attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a virtuous and self-denied character in a romance is dismissed with temporal wealth, greatness, rank, or the indulgence of a rashly formed or ill-assorted passion, it is natural to say verily, virtue has its reward. But a glance on the great picture of life will show, that the duties of self-denial, of the sacrifice of passion to principle are seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal consciousness of their high-minded discharge of duty produces, on their own reflections a more adequate recompense in the form of that peace, "which the world can neither give, nor take away."

WALTER SCOTT.

FEAR but freezes minds: but Love, like heat, Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat; To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard, Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared ; But, when the milder beams of mercy play,

He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.

DRYDEN.